


One Week

by idharao



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, Astaire/Rogers RPF, Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, classic Hollywood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idharao/pseuds/idharao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven one-shots for the Merry Month of Masturbation challenge from Livejournal. Seven days of good old-fashioned sexual exploits between two of Hollywood's greatest stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Week

**Day One**

He thinks about her in the shower and the thought is so vivid he's hard instantly. He imagines having her in there with him, the ability to move her just where he wants her. He thinks about how she seems to understand him implicitly and what her face would look like if he suggested she join him in the shower. He thinks about how she looked underneath him on the pullout couch in her dressing room the day before, and the way she threw her head back and laughed when he told her a joke. He thinks about how he wants to get her on all fours and just--  
     
He comes quickly, too quickly. He feels like a candle that won't go out. She had to have known he was watching her warm up that morning with his mind on anything but the dancing. She works hard, she ends up sweating and breathless and exhausted and he absolutely wants to make her sweat more for a much better reason.

Of course she knows, she's always known.

He leans both forearms on the shower wall and rests his head against them. The water is like a blanket and he is very tired. Another day of eight hours of hard work tomorrow; he thinks he'll get her alone in the morning before they've spent too much energy. The thought makes him exhale hard.

He gets into bed twenty minutes later and checks to see that his wife is sleeping soundly. He clicks on a small light and reads, his mind half on the text. He sleeps.

The next day she comes to him in a swirl of perfume and fabric, a prop dress so they can get the feel of her costume. Halfway through the morning she shivers when he pushes the dress off her shoulders. He made sure to lock the door that morning so as not to be disturbed. The playback of the song continues in the background while the dress collapses to the floor in a pile of cloth around her feet.

 

* * * *

**Day Two**

They spend all day working on a single dance until the movements are perfect. There is no such thing as too much rehearsal for either of them. She likes that; she doesn't acknowledge that she looks for more time with him. As they dance he puts his hands in places that make her giggle and yelp. He leans in so that he can get in her space while they tap. She dances, exerts, talks and laughs, and when he does finally slow her down and kiss her she's more than ready for him. Before they acquired this familiarity to their relationship she could recall the glances and caught breaths and touches that went from inadvertent to deliberate. The talking and laughing acquired a third component of hushed sounds of pleasure. She thinks about that now as his hands massage her hips, her waist. When he lets her go they're like machinery; the dance begins again.

They break for lunch after an hour of repeating the same tap combination until she can't decide whether she wants to kill him or kiss him. She does, however, want a nap. She goes to her dressing room and sets an alarm clock for forty-five minutes from then. She doesn't care about lunch; she hates to rehearse on a full stomach and she is getting worn out.

Under the covers she closes her eyes and thinks.

She comes thinking about Fred and how Fred touches her. She knows it's wrong but she doesn't care.

 

* * * *

**Day Three**

She tells him in his ear about her night, about how he was on her mind, about what she imagined. He has his hand at the small of her back and her face is turned up so that she can tell him secrets. The hand traces shapes along the plane of her slender waist, fingers that move as elegantly as dancers. He's itching to unbutton the blouse she has on, but she's made a point of telling him this right before they're supposed to be on set for blocking rehearsal. He's amused and exasperated by this at the same time.  
     
Eight hour days of rehearsal are spent in an almost religious ritual of dancing. She gets so that she can do the movements in her sleep, memorizes where his hands go. Once everything is learned they can add their own touches, relax into the familiarity of the motions, and pay each other some attention. Their smiles are automatic when they start to move in unison. People marvel at the way they're able to do the same thing at exactly the same time, but it's really not much more than familiarity. The alchemy is just good old-fashioned comfort flavored with an intimacy born of constant contact. They like each other and that's an aspect of male-female relations that people often miss.  
     
On set she smiles at him while they work and he wants to sink his fingers into her hair and make her pay him some attention. He thinks she works much too hard. And of course now he has the image of her touching herself--  
     
The flash of an overhead light brings him back to the task at hand. It takes another twenty minutes before they call in the stand-ins and release them back to the rehearsal room. The assistant choreographer and the accompanist are elsewhere for the moment, so he locks the door and she perches herself on the table on which they keep the record player and their glasses of water. A vinyl record of their dancing music is on the turntable already, and he drops the needle so that the music starts. It's a convenient cover.

She regards him with amusement and suggestion and he does finally get his hands into her hair, the better to work at her mouth. She lets him do as he pleases with her for a long, blissful moment, and then murmurs, "I hope we're going to be alone for a while."

But he's already pushing her knees apart and pulling her hips towards his. "I've been waiting to get you out of these clothes all day," he says in response.  
     
She laughs breathlessly. "You know we might get caught here."  
     
"I don't care," he says. Then he's kissing her neck, her jaw, and whispering, "I locked the door." His hands push her skirt up her thighs and unfasten his trousers quickly, expertly. She makes the most incredible noise when he pushes inside of her and it makes him groan, curling his fingers into her hips and covering her mouth with his.  
     
He tries to go as slow as he can because he knows she likes it hard but not fast and she braces her hands behind her on the surface of the table. He crowds close to her, gets in her face, moving her knees wide apart. She's with him every step of the way as always, her dancer's body moving with his. She presses her forehead to his so that he can practically taste the sounds she's making. He wants to make her louder, make her writhe. He doesn't care that they might get caught. He only wants to hear that noise she makes when she comes, when he makes her come.  
     
"Oh," she says, her voice shaky. He loves that, loves it. She links her arms around his neck and pulls herself close to him. She buries her face in his shoulder and he palms her behind, pulling her against him.

Fifteen minutes later when the knock on the door comes followed by one of the production assistants announcing lunch, they are already back working on hand and arm movements. No one has an inkling.

She loves that.

 

* * * *

 

**Day Four**

They spend six weeks in dance rehearsal before they even begin staging or learning lines. For those six weeks she isn't making any other movies because she's working seven days with him in front of a mirror and on the scuffed wooden floors she knows so well now.

Seven days a week means she doesn't go to church, she goes to work. Seven days a week means she spends three hundred and fifty hours with him before the movie even begins; their contact is constant and she thinks how lucky it is they get along so well.

As they dance he tells her what he wants to do to her and how. They're alone, the record is set to play on repeat and the door is locked with a security guard outside. This is at his insistence since interruptions are anathema to him while he works. It also affords them the luxury of a private place and time away from the activity of the lot; RKO is the little studio that could and she doesn't know how many films are in production at the moment.

She told him how, in the beginning, she used to come back to her dressing room at the end of the day exhausted but incredibly turned on, her whole body buzzing from activity and arousal. She couldn't relax until she had relieved the overwhelming urge to touch herself, to release the pent-up tension that made her breath shallow and her nerves taut. When she told him this he grinned at her and asked if he could watch. She laughed at first but he was serious. So the next day she let him, but he didn't let her finish and had his hand buried between her legs before she had a chance to react and then she couldn't have found the words anyway.

He says her name and that brings her out of her thoughts. She turns back to him and they resume their run-through. "Stay with me, honey," he says.

Now she has the ability have what she wants when she wants it.

 

* * * *

 

  
**Day Five**   


The knock on her dressing room door makes her look up from her book. "I'm busy," she calls, unwilling to be disturbed.

"It's me."

That voice she knows anywhere.

The door opens and he's standing there with his hat in his hand, looking amused. "What were you doing?" he inquires as she steps aside to let him in.

"Masturbating," she answers with a straight face, and then bursts out laughing at the look on his face.

"Were you really?" He looks fascinated and a little embarrassed.

"No," she says, giggling. "You would just love to walk in on me, though, wouldn't you?" She holds up her book. "I'm finishing Nijinsky."  
     
"Ah, literacy is such a sexy thing in a beautiful woman," he says contentedly, leaning on her vanity table and looking her over. She feels his gaze like a physical touch.    

Plopping herself back on the couch, she folds her knees up to her chin. "What can I do for you, dear?"  
     
"Anything you want," he replies, and she blushes a little. Even now when he's as familiar to her as her own eyes he can still make her blush. Then he seats himself next to her on the sofa and outlines the rehearsal plan for the second half of the day. The conversation flows easily. She listens as she putters around the room, putting the book back and gathering up her empty glass. She stops to take a look at herself in the big mirror on the vanity and jumps when she feels his arms go around her waist. "You're so fucking beautiful," he says to their reflections, and kisses her neck, a fast deep kiss that ends too soon. "I  _would_ love to walk in on you," he adds, making her laugh. He leaves her buzzing with the impact.

 

* * * *

 

**Day Six**

  
She gave him her neck, her shoulders where the skin was cool and smooth like silk. He pushed her blouse off her arms, tracing his fingers down her neck, across her shoulders, where her bones protruded like a sculpture. He had the memory of her shape, but the real thing was under his hands and he felt he couldn't ever get enough of looking or touching her.

She stood close to him as he reached around to unhook her bra, and then let it slide off her arms like her blouse. He didn't look down at her breasts, but rather focused on her face. "You look the same but not the same," he said a little breathlessly.

She smiled. "You look the same."

He stepped back and held her arms akimbo. "Can I keep going?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," she said, and found she was anticipating his hands.

So he undid the clasp of her light trousers and pushed them and her underwear down her hips and then her thighs. At her knees the garments fell into a soft heap at her ankles. He exhaled. She stepped out of the little pile of fabric. She discovered she was wet, and shifted a little.

He was looking at her, stepped back as though he were viewing a statue. His eyes roamed over her body. She grinned and let him tour around her, taking his time.

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

Why he was asking permission she didn't know, but she reached for his hand and laid it on her abdomen. "Am I really so different?" she asked.

Everything was still there; the freckle on the side of her left breast, the indentation of her navel, the silky skin. But now she was rounder, even more like a woman than she had been in New York. Now her hips fit into his hands precisely, her breasts more than the handfuls they used to be. Her hair was like deep gold now, tawny curls around her chin. Where before she had been brunette and lean, she was golden and round and warm. She drew in a breath as his hands started to move, to explore her.

"Ah."

She let out a little noise when he slipped his hand between her legs. "You're wet," he said, sounding a little surprised.

"Well, you're touching me," she said. "Aren't you going to let me have a chance too?" He was not wearing a suit but was still wearing his shirt and trousers.

"Wait."

He was sliding his hand back and forth. She caught her breath. Then she gave a little exclamation and rose up on her toes; he had slid two fingers up and inside her. That was where he stopped, just looking at her face. She looked up at him, her lips parted. He moved his hand up and she gasped. Again, and then again.

"You do it," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"You do it." He took her hand and put it where his hand had just been. "I want to watch."

So she did. She let him watch and when she came he murmured, "Oh my god," in a near-growl.

Twenty minutes later when they went to makeup they gave no indication anything had happened. He appreciated that and had to stop himself from looking back at her as they went to their separate dressing rooms.

 

* * * *

 

**Day Seven**

She faces the mirror and grips the barre. He's kissing her, under her ear, pushing her hair out of the way so he can get to her skin. She's spent the whole day pressed against him, moving with him, breathing with him. They spend weeks like this-- months like this, actually-- until the concept of personal space doesn't quite exist for them the way it does for others.  
     
He nudges her knees apart with one of his and tugs her rehearsal trousers down her hips, slipping a hand between her legs as he undoes his slacks. She says a very unladylike word when he guides himself inside her. He knows they might get caught but oh, God, it's unbelievable inside her. She moves, straightens, and the movement causes him to slide all the way in. Her mouth falls open helplessly; there's not an inch further he can go and he makes a noise of pure pleasure in her ear.  
     
These are the things they take home with themselves; the day's experiences are not fully recounted to their loved ones, for the detail of this passionate lovemaking is always left out. But these thoughts are the ones that distract him in his spare time, make her writhe when she's alone in bed.  
     
He thinks how he's been waiting to see her for a week straight, how he's been imagining her back arching and her breath in his ear. He'll never tell anyone but her how she makes him hard, so hard, and how he comes thinking about her. She knows anyway, and he can see it in her face sometimes, a smile that is just a tiny bit smug.  
     
She pushes back against him and brings him back to the present moment where her eyes are locked on their reflection in the mirror. "Jesus Christ, this is hot," she manages, and he laughs and thrusts hard once, twice, three times, making her yelp and then moan. She nearly melts against him when she comes and he scrapes his teeth lightly against her shoulder, saying things he can only say to her. About how she makes him come and how good she feels. About how he wants to make her scream.  
     
A breathless ten minutes later she has her hand down between her legs as he's leaning against her, sweating and breathing hard, spent. Her hair has come loose from its braid and she knows she'll have to redo it. He groans as she tightens around him again, the sound of her gasping making him want her all over again. He watches her face in the mirror as she comes for the second time, this time of her own doing.  
     
"I missed you," she says finally, when he's zipping up his trousers and caressing her waist as she does up hers.  
     
He'd just spent six weeks in Paris with his wife and two in Ireland with his sister and her duke husband. But on that week-long journey back to California she was on his mind all the time. Now he's back and she can have him again.The process of movie-making his begun again for the fourth time.


End file.
